


The Sherlock Lesbian Bullshit I Have No Excuse For

by Anonymous



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Afterlife, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Injury, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Gender or Sex Swap, where does it diverge? who knows!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:21:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25161547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Its all in the title baby.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3
Collections: Anonymous





	The Sherlock Lesbian Bullshit I Have No Excuse For

**Author's Note:**

> Writing is very much not my shtick. This is the first fanfic I've ever written, and its all because my gay brain is on fire from quarantine and it decided that the only way to get anything out was through an overly complicated lesbian bodice-ripper type au for a piece of media I haven't interacted with in years and think is bad. So here we are.
> 
> The character death isn't really a permanent thing? Its hard to explain, but I have another chapter planned-- this one is pretty much just set up for the rest. Nothing is beta'd, nothing is researched, and I'm making it all up as I go along. Expect things to be out of character as hell, because I pretty much just need a flimsy framework for whatever gay fantasy my brain cooked up. Have fun maybe?

_Well_ , Joan thought to herself as she lie on the asphalt of a dingy alleyway, _at least I wasn’t misremembering how much it hurts to get shot._ Blood was sluggishly flowing from a hole somewhere in her abdomen— in her defense, it was dark when the bastard shot her and she wasn’t in any sort of state to take note where the bullet ripped through her— and she’d reached the point of blood loss where she knew she was a goner, but felt too numb to care anymore. She’d done her dance with accepting death during Afghanistan and after; now she’s finally riding it out. 

How a grungy young pickpocket ended up with a gun, she didn’t know, but this case was supposed to be open and shut. And by Sherlock’s estimate, it had been— the added legwork of chasing down a street kid who stumbled upon something bigger than he could’ve known was just an added bonus, in her eyes. No one had to get hurt for once. But unfortunately for them— for _Joan—_ they underestimated how trigger happy a paranoid teen with a pistol could get, and Joan just happened to be the ass who ran after him. _Stupid, stupid._

Muffled footsteps pulled Joan from her thoughts for just a moment. _Right, Sherlock._ Joan blearily took note of scuffling shoes, a pale, wide eyed face and hands flitting over her abdomen where red continued to leak. _God her hair has gotten long. Like a lions mane that one. No wonder she always keeps it tied back._ Sherlock’s eyes looked wild and her mouth was moving. She was looking at Joan, talking to her. Joan couldn’t feel her toes and wished she could wiggle them. 

“-oan, Joan, for the love of— _Joan!_ ” Joan looked up from her toes. Oh, Sherlock had put her hands on her face. They felt nice, warm. She always liked how big they were, how dexterous. She couldn’t help but relax some under their weight (“Joan _please_ , you can’t close your eyes”), feeling her body go limper than it had before if it were possible. “Joan I need you to focus, I need you to answer me.” Yes, she supposed she could answer, but it had to be done quick. The world had gone syrupy and slow, and she desperately wanted to close her eyes and let herself sink in. 

“Will you let me have you, Joan? Will you let me take you?” Joan scrunched her brow as much as she could with what little facial control she had left. Sherlock leaned her face closer, tighter. “Answer me Joan, come on.” Joan nodded— _whatever will set her at ease, I suppose—_ and Sherlock only pressed closer, jaw clenched. “No, no, you need to say it or it won’t work, Joan you have to _say it.”_ Joan felt those big hands petting her throat, her hair, her face with greater intensity. Something under her breastbone ached as she punched out a raspy “yes”.

Sherlock fluttered into motion immediately, muttering something under her breath and flying her hands down to the hem of Joan’s jumper. She yanked it up, undershirt and all, and shoved it under the crook of Joan’s chin. _Oh._ Joan couldn’t help but feel giddy in her haze. _This whole bloody time, and all it took for Ms. ‘Married to her Work’ to be interested in my tits was a bullet to the gut._ “What are you— you can’t _giggle,_ Joan, you’re losing enough blood as it is.” _Ah, she’s still no fun._

Joan was pulled from her reverie by Sherlock pressing a palm to her sternum and slowly pushing down. It hurt, a lot, and the blissful numbness Joan had sunk into began to recede. _Fuck, Sherlock you bloody bastard— fuck, fuck_. And then the palm started to _burn_.

Her body jerked, weakened from blood loss but still flailing enough that Sherlock had to press Joan’s shoulder down with her other hand and pin Joan’s legs with a knee. Pain seared through her chest as Sherlock tried to keep her hand steady, baring her teeth for some unseen effort and making an attempt to evenly distribute the pressure. Joan’s mind had gone white with pain. Something under her ribcage dislodged and began to rise. It felt like a deep, aching _pull_. Sherlock continued to pull until it met her palm, the only thing separating it from her hand a thin layer of skin stretched taut over Joan’s sternum. 

All at once Sherlock removed her hand. The hot, angry pain remained. Joan’s belly stung and screamed like a bastard, refusing to be ignored has Joan’s breath quickened and her eyes flew open wide and unseeing. Sherlock adjusted her knees back to the hard ground, reaching an arm under her friend’s shoulder and tugged her close as she faded. 


End file.
